The Girt Woak Tree That's In The Dell: Poem by William Barnes

The girt woak tree that's in the dell!There's noo tree I do love so well;Vor times an' times when I wer young,I there've a-climbed, an' there've a-zwung,An' picked the eacorns green, a-shedIn wrestlen storms vrom his broad head.An' down below's the cloty brookWhere I did vish with line an' hook,An' beat, in playsome dips and zwims,The foamy stream, wi' white-skinned lim's.An' there my mother nimbly shotHer knitten-needles, as she zotAt evenen down below the wideWoak's head, wi' father at her zide.An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy,That's now a man an' gone awoy;Zoo I do like noo tree so well'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' there, in leater years, I rovedWi' thik poor maid I fondly loved, -The maid too feair to die so soon, -When evenen twilight, or the moon,Cast light enough 'ithin the pleaceTo show the smiles upon her feace,Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool,An' lips an' cheaks so soft as wool.There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm,Wi' love that burned but thought noo harm,Below the wide-boughed tree we passedThe happy hours that went too vast;An' though she'll never be my wife,She's still my leaden star o' life.She's gone: an' she've a-left to meHer mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' oh! mid never ax nor hookBe brought to spweil his steately look;Nor ever roun' his ribby zidesMid cattle rub ther heairy hides;Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keepHis lwonesome sheade vor harmless sheep;An' let en grow, an' let en spread,An' let en live when I be dead.But oh! if men should come an' vellThe girt woak tree that's in the dell,An' build his planks 'ithin the zideO' zome girt ship to plough the tide,Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea,A sailen wi' the girt woak tree:An' I upon his planks would stand,An' die a-fighten vor the land, -The land so dear, - the land so free, -The land that bore the girt woak tree;Vor I do love noo tree so well'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.